"I'll call the wholesaler," she said. "You make the notices."
"Ruth, I don't know how many more times we can do this."
"Then we do the next one properly," she replied. "We'll worry about the one after that when it comes."
The new notice had a line at the top in bold letters: THE WATER IS BACK ON. IT HAS NOT BEEN CLEARED FOR USE. DO NOT DRINK OR USE IT UNTIL PUBLIC HEALTH OFFICIALS SAY IT IS SAFE. Beneath that, I explained that the water system had been restarted by people other than the permitted operator while testing remained incomplete. I asked people not to interpret a full faucet as evidence of a safe supply.
I printed one hundred and eighty-six copies. Ruth and I delivered them together, stopping at every house where we knew somebody had an infant or a medical need. The difference this time was that residents saw water coming from their taps and wanted to believe the danger had passed. Some thanked Diane on the neighborhood app while our warning lay untouched by their front doors.
At a house on Sycamore, a young mother opened the door with the chain still fastened. She looked past me toward Ruth and asked whether the HOA was correct that I had exaggerated the laboratory results. I told her the samples existed, that copies had been submitted to the county, and that more results were pending. I did not ask her to trust my feelings.
"Please do not make formula with that water," I said. "Use bottled water until the authority tells you otherwise."
Her baby started crying behind her. She looked toward the sound, then back at the paper in my hand. For several seconds I thought she would close the door, but she unhooked the chain and accepted the notice. "I'll keep using bottles," she whispered. "Even if she's wrong?"
"Even if I'm wrong," I answered. "That's what precautions are for."
I watched her fold the paper and place it on the hallway table where she could see it. That small act did not repair the community's trust, but it might keep one child away from the water while we waited for the tests. I carried that thought through the next two streets as evening settled around the houses. Ruth watched my face from the driver's seat and knew not to interrupt it.
By the time we had distributed the second round of warnings, we had bought six pallets of bottled water in total. The receipts filled a folder in the glove compartment, which Ruth had started labeling by date because she could no longer bear to see them scattered. She stopped asking how we would pay for them. At first I interpreted that as acceptance; later she told me she was afraid that if she began asking, she might also begin saying we could not afford to help.